


An Immense Embrace

by MoldovanHats



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Enjolras has a crush!, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-04-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 21:45:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/679204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoldovanHats/pseuds/MoldovanHats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Modern AU, set in Paris, which follows Enjolras, in love with Feuilly, as he goes about his business. Who knows? Maybe Feuilly returns the feelings?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Encounter

**Author's Note:**

> Naturally, only the storyline is mine. The book/film/musical/characters are not. 
> 
> Don't dislike it too much. Enjoy.

Enjolras walked quickly through the streets of Paris, hurrying home to his apartment. The light was fading, the sun sinking slowly down beneath the horizon, and he knew better than to be outside at night. He arrived at his door, beside a little boulangerie. He opened the outside door and ran quickly up the stairs to the door of his apartment. 

He opened the door and hurried inside, anxious to put some ideas for his politics essay down onto paper. Upon entering however, he knew at once something was not right. The table in the kitchen had been disturbed, and some of his papers had fallen on the floor. Someone had made themselves coffee too. He barely even drank coffee; in fact, he didn’t even know why he actually had any. He heard snoring from the bedroom, and presumed it was Marius who had invaded his home. Marius and Courfeyrac shared an apartment across the street from him, and apparently when Courfeyrac brought someone home, it was ‘sinful and scarring to be within twenty feet of his apartment’, so at this point, Enjolras was used to Marius staying over with him. He decided to let the boy sleep, and sat down at his kitchen table to write his essay.

Three hours later, Enjolras was about halfway through comparing the different political ideals at play in France in the early 1830s, and he heard Marius stir in the next room. The door to the bedroom opened, and without looking up from his work, Enjolras asked “Who did he bring home this time?”

“What? Who did who bring where?” The voice that replied was not the soft, smooth one of Marius Pontmercy; it was something rougher, a voice that had seen more than its fair share of hardship.

“Feuilly?” asked Enjolras, growing considerably more and more confused, “What are you doing here? And why? I thought you were in Poland?”

“I was sleeping. Because I was tired. I came back from Krakow today, but couldn’t find the key to my apartment, so I thought, ‘hey now, Feuilly, where could you go?’, so I rang Marius and asked him where you kept your spare key, and so, I arrived, and promptly fell asleep. Comfortable bed, by the way.”

Enjolras smiled, a little nervously, “Thanks,” before going back to his work. Or rather, attempting to, because now all he could think of was Feuilly having slept in his bed. HIS BED. He wondered if it smelled like Feuilly now. ‘Stop that’, he admonished himself internally. For you see, from the very day Enjolras had laid eyes upon Mathieu Feuilly, there was an admiration. The admiration grew as the two became friends, and Enjolras found out Mathieu’s story. They were both politics students, and once or twice, Enjolras found himself missing entire lectures because he was staring at Feuilly, transfixed on the professor. It was roughly a month ago now that Enjolras had realised he felt more than friendship for the man in his kitchen, pottering around and searching in the fridge, looking for a little snack. 

The artificial light illuminated Feuilly’s features, giving the man an almost ethereal glow. His deep blue eyes were emphasised, and the way his black hair sat just-so on his head. Enjolras realised no more of his essay was going to get written while Feuilly was within his line of sight, so he carefully packed up his writing materials and headed for his room.

“Bonne nuit, Mathieu, I am heading for bed,” muttered Enjolras as he rushed toward his bedroom, “Just let yourself out when you’re ready to go.”

“Julien! Wait a minute!” shouted Feuilly, mouth full of some chocolate found deep in the recesses of Enjolras’ rarely used fridge.

Enjolras sighed, and slowly turned around, “Yes?”

“Just, thank you for not getting angry and throwing me out straight away. I know that I can be a pain sometimes,” said Feuilly, softly and stutteringly.

Enjolras crossed the room in three large steps and stood face to face with Feuilly. He reached out his hands and cupped Feuilly’s face between them. “Mathieu, you have never been a pain, nor shall you ever be one. You are mad for thinking that I would get angry with you. Who could get angry with you, I ask? The answer? No one.”

Feuilly blushed, and looked down, “Th-thanks Julien. You’re a good friend.”

“As are you, mon cher, as are you,” whispered Enjolras, turning from Feuilly and heading for his bedroom. “Goodnight, Mathieu.”

“Goodnight Julien.”

As his bedroom door closed behind him, Enjolras all but mentally attacked himself. ‘What were you thinking, Julien? You were this close to actually declaring your feelings.’ He sat down at his desk with his head in his hands and decided he need never speak to anyone ever again. Outside his occasional rants about anything and everything, obviously. He somehow calmed himself down enough to forget about Mathieu Feuilly a little and finally finished his essay. At a little past midnight, he lay down to sleep, and, as he was settling himself down and making himself comfortable, he noticed that there was a new, pleasant smell in his bed. One with which he was sadly unaccustomed to, but oh, how he wished that it would become familiar to him some day. ‘Goddammit Feuilly, why must you be so-‘

The thought was never finished, for Julien Enjolras succumbed to the warmth of his bed, and slept. Comfortably.


	2. Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feuilly and Enjolras complain about each other to their best friends.

“Stupid blonde haired god,” moaned Feuilly as his head hit his hands. He had been moping in the Café Musain for the best part of an hour now, occasionally touching his face, to see if he could still feel the heat from Enjolras’ hands, even though that happened three days ago.

Last week, while in Poland to visit his grandmother, Feuilly had decided that he missed Julien Enjolras far more than what was acceptable to miss a friend. He realised that he was in love. With Enjolras. This led to a huge amount of self-doubt on his part, a moment of weakness in front of the aforementioned god, and Enjolras placing his hands on his face, imprinting a heat on it that still hadn’t left.

“Hey now Feuilly, cheer up,” said Bahorel. “It’s not that bad.”

“No, Georges, it IS that bad. He’s beautiful and perfect and sexy and passionate and perfect and proud and loving and perfect and caring and wonderful and smart and perfect and I said perfect too many times there, didn’t I?”

“By my count, a third of those adjectives were ‘perfect’” laughed Prouvaire. “Some day you’re feeling less lovesick and hopeless remind me to buy you a dictionary and a thesaurus. We seriously need to improve your vocabulary. Words can be wonderful, m’dear Mathieu, but to truly have control over your language, more of them are needed.”

Feuilly lifted his head up and smiled. “Tell me again why I’m friends with you, Jehan?”

“Well,” considered Jehan, “possibly because I’m charming and perfect and smart and wonderful and perfect and -” He ducked as Feuilly threw a newspaper at his head. “But seriously, the reason you’re friends with me is because when I arrived, you were sinking into a small depression because of the blonde-who-shall-not-be-named and now you’re smiling. THAT is why you’re friends with me. As for our not-so-little Bahorel here, I’d presume it’s because he’s large and can back you in a fight.”

“You know,” chuckled Bahorel, “part of me feels like I should be insulted by that, but another part of me knows it’s true and just wants to laugh.”

Jehan stood up grandly from his chair, arms outstretched with an air of gratitude and took a small bow, “Well, Monsieur, all I can tell you is that I aim to please! And with that, I bid you both adieu, mes amis, for the moon is full tonight and when that happens, inspiration pours from every star in the sky and bubbles up from each and every one of our Parisian sewers!” Prouvaire was an amateur poet, forever going on about ideas of love and happiness and how beautiful our world is. 

Bahorel laughed again and said quietly to Mathieu, “I’d better follow him. Last time he left here talking about sewers I found him trying to climb into one at three in the morning. There’s no telling what he might do to himself. All in the name of good poetry, he claims. Goodnight Mathieu, and do try to forget at least a little about Enjolras. Worried isn’t a good look for you.”

Feuilly allowed himself a smile and a timid “Good night, Georges.”

Bahorel took off from the Musain; following Jehan warily out into the streets of Paris.

Not ten minutes later, Feuilly got up and exited the Musain also, heading for home, purposefully not thinking about a certain blond haired friend. 

***

“So, we’ll meet outside my apartment before heading to the protest then?” asked Combeferre.

Courfeyrac, sitting across the table from his bespectacled friend, laughed and leant forward, “Heavens, Alain, whatever do you mean ‘heading to the protest’? We ARE the protest. Wherever we are, so it shall be. There shall be no heading anywhere. But yes, your apartment sounds good.”

Combeferre rolled his eyes at Courfeyrac, “You know, Michel, sometimes the shorter answers are the best ones…”

“Ah! You wound me, dear friend! You insinuate I talk too much! Me? I could never talk too much! And another thing, where would be the fun in straight answers? You must always embellish, Alain, always.”

Combeferre took a breath, readjusted his glasses, and said, in the nicest way possible, “Would you ever just shut up?”

Courfeyrac gasped and turned to the third occupant of the small table in Courfeyrac’s apartment, “Did you hear him Julien? You shouldn’t stand for this! Defend my honour!”

Julien shook his head and blinked a few times, “Stand for what? Defend whose honour?”

Combeferre looked at Enjolras, before asking quietly, “Julien? Is something the matter? You’ve never not paid full attention to anything before, and you have certainly never zoned  
out and missed a whole conversation?”

Enjolras shook his head fiercely, blond curls bouncing independently, “No no, everything’s fine. Nothing’s the matter.”

Combeferre looked almost prepared to accept Enjolras’ statement, but Courfeyrac was not. Courfeyrac jumped a little, as if he had just realised something with a start, “There is MOST DEFINITELY something the matter. And I bet you I know what it is, too!”

Enjolras paled and Combeferre looked concerned. “What?”

“Oh, don’t you see!” cried Courfeyrac positively boiling with glee, “our little Enjolras is in love. He has finally grown up. He wants to spend his time not here, planning little protests, but with his beloved, running through the streets of Paris hand-in-hand, and taking little picnics in the park, and cuddling when it rains and laughing when it’s sunny and – OW! THAT HURT ENJOLRAS! Law textbooks are for reading and learning from, and occasionally sleeping on, not throwing. Now, I DEMAND you apologise profusely for your actions this instant!” 

“No.” said Enjolras, obstinately.

“Fine” sighed Courfeyrac, “I know better than to say anything else on the subject, you’ll only whoop my ass with your damnably infallible logic powers.”

Combeferre laughed, “Michel, you did not just use the words ‘whoop’ and ‘infallible’ together in the same sentence.”

Courfeyrac stuck out his tongue, “And what if I did. Problem, Alain? Anyway, on to much more important business. “

“Ah yes, the protest tomorrow” said Combeferre.

“No no no” replied Courfeyrac. “I’m talking about the little minx that has somehow managed to steal dear little Julien’s heart. Who is she, Julien?”

“Well, she isn’t anybody, because it’s not a she” mumbled Enjolras.

Courfeyrac spluttered, “Wait, what? We’ve known each other for what, the best part of ten years, and you’ve never seen fit to tell me, one of your best friends, that you’re gay?!”

“Well, I’m telling you now. Why, is being gay wrong to you? Can we no longer be friends, Michel?”

“Yeah, exactly. Problem, Michel?” smiled Combeferre.

Courfeyrac scowled, “Oh shut up Alain. And no, by the way, there is no problem being gay. You can prance around on a rainbow-striped unicorn with YMCA playing in the background for all I care about your sexual preferences. What I care about is you never actually informing me!”

“It never came up. Sorry, Michel.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m sure I’ll get over it just fine, if you tell me who is making Little Julien ‘stand to attention,’” pressed Courfeyrac, leaning forward in his chair.

“No.”

“Why not?” asked Combeferre.

“Because I don’t want to.”

“Okay” said Courfeyrac, putting his hands up in a mock sense of defeat, “ I should’ve known asking you outright wouldn’t get me anywhere, so I’ll ask specified questions instead.  
Will you answer these questions with naught but the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?”

“You’re far too overly dramatic sometimes, you know Michel. And yes, I suppose I might,” replied Julien.

“Do I know him?”

“Hmmm….yes.”

“Do I see him regularly?”

“Yes.”

“Is it me?”

Enjolras spluttered, “No, of course it isn’t! Are you mad?”

“Okay, calm down, just checking. Is he in Les Amis?”

A sigh. “Yes.”

“Okay, Grantaire?”

“No.”

“Joly?”

“No.”

“Jehan?”

“No.”

“Feuilly?”

Enjolras paused.

“It’s Feuilly, isn’t it, Julien?” asked Courfeyrac.

Another sigh from Enjolras. “Yes, Michel. I am in love with Mathieu Feuilly.”

“So what are you going to do about it?” asked Combeferre.

“Absolutely no clue whatsoever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it. Comment if you liked it, or even if you didn't.


	3. Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feuilly works up some nerve, and tells Enjolras. Happiness ensues.

“Denying gay and lesbian couples the right to marry only stigmatises those families and makes it almost acceptable to discriminate against them!” shouted Enjolras, completely immersed in the debate.

Once a month, the debating society in the college, who’s President was Enjolras, naturally, welcomed the society of another college in Paris for a debate on a different subject. Tonight’s was on gay marriage, with Enjolras arguing for the motion. Usually, all of their little society, Les Amis de l’ABC, attended in support, but tonight only Courfeyrac, Prouvaire and Feuilly were free to attend.

Every time Enjolras stood up to speak, Courfeyrac gave Feuilly a sideways glance and Prouvaire elbowed him forcefully in the side. And every time he was elbowed in the side, Feuilly swatted away Jehan’s hand and pretended not to notice Courfeyrac’s glances.

‘He’s so just...ugh...perfect’ thought Feuilly, as he watched Enjolras. ‘His passion is unmatched, and his points, they’re just so sensible and no one can argue with them. On top of that, he looks brilliant too. He’s truly at home up there, with that slight sheen of sweat across his forehead and his curls flying around with every slight movement of the head. It’s not even funny how much I’ve fallen for him.’

“And another thing!” shouted someone else, “How would you feel if someone told you that you were an abomination and were not free to marry the person you love?” This new speaker was Marius Pontmercy, the vice-president of the debating society. He and Enjolras were merely acquaintances in day-to-day life, and they disagreed over most political matters, however, when debating, they played off one another as if they were the best of friends, a well-rehearsed team always in sync, and together they were nigh on   
unbeatable.

Sometimes Feuilly felt a little jealous of their relationship whilst watching the debates, but then he remembered three things. First, Marius wasn’t actually Julien’s best friend, no, that was Combeferre. Second, Marius was straight and had no feelings for Julien, and third, Marius had a girlfriend, Cosette, and so definitely had no feelings for Julien.

***

“Come on everybody, drink! Drink with me!” shouted Grantaire, running through the Musain. 

Everyone had come to the Musain to celebrate the debating society’s victory. This marked their twentieth consecutive victory. In fact, with Enjolras at the helm, they had only ever   
lost one debate, where Julien was made to argue the benefits of a monarchy as opposed to a republic. But people didn’t speak of that day, they knew better than that.

Everyone was enjoying themselves. Marius and Cosette had taken a bottle of wine and retreated into a dark corner, Grantaire and Éponine were seeing who could drink the other under the table, Prouvaire was prancing around, holding a can of beer, waxing poetic about alcohol, Bahorel was trying to chat up three barmaids at once, Courfeyrac was flirting with a door, and Joly, Bossuet and Combeferre were sitting at a table, getting drunk and putting the world to rights. Everyone was definitely having a good time. Well, everyone except Feuilly and Enjolras. Enjolras didn’t drink, and so was perched on a stool, watching everyone, making sure people didn’t do anything too stupid, *cough* Courfeyrac *cough*, and Feuilly had been abandoned by his friends to nurse a beer and stare longingly at Julien.

For a moment, Jehan forgot his poetry and sat himself down by his best friend. “You should tell him, Mathieu. Really, you should.”

Feuilly laughed, “Are you mad, Prouvaire?”

“Yes, yes I am. And you should know that by now, after all, we’ve been friends since what, high school.”

***

It was true, Mathieu had moved in with an adoptive family in Paris at age 15, and so had to move to a new school. On the first day, this boy with long red hair tied up in a ponytail with a pink ribbon sat down beside him and stuck out his hand. 

‘Jean Prouvaire. But my friends call me Jehan.’

Young Mathieu looked at the boy next to him and shook his hand. ‘I’m Mathieu Feuilly, nice to meet you Jean.’

‘Call me Jehan.’ 

They had been best friends ever since.

***

“Why should I tell him, Jehan?” asked Feuilly. “What if I make him hate me?”

“He won’t hate you, Mathieu, I promise.”

“But how can you be sure?”

“Hey Jehan, you ready to go?” asked Courfeyrac, slipping his arms over Jehan’s shoulders and embracing him tightly.

“Yeah, in a minute Courf” whispered Jehan, placing a soft kiss on his right hand. “I’ve got to go, Mathieu, but tell him, please.”

Feuilly watched Jehan and Michel leave arm in arm, and smiled. “At least someone’s happy,” he muttered to himself. 

Now, Mathieu Feuilly had a certain amount of pride, and no one could describe him as a coward, so he resolved to bite the bullet and tell Julien. He finished his beer, stood up, walked over to where Enjolras was sitting, and sat down on a stool beside him. 

“I need to talk to you about something, Julien.”

Enjolras turned around and looked a little concerned. “Right, okay, what’s wrong?”

“Well, um, you know I’m gay right?”

“Feuilly,” smiled Enjolras. “Everyone knows you’re gay. You stood up on a table in the Musain and proclaimed in French, English and Polish that you, and I quote, ‘enjoy a good penis’.”

Feuilly reddened and laughed. “Oh, don’t remind me, I don’t think I’ve ever been as drunk in my life.”

Enjolras began to laugh loudly, “After which you proceeded to kiss Marius, Combeferre and Joly very publicly and very, very sloppily.”

Feuilly sat up straight. “Seriously? Tell me why I don’t remember that?”

“You were really, really drunk, that’s probably why, Mathieu.”

“Okay, I accept why I don’t remember it, now I’m wondering why the hell no one ever told me?!” exclaimed Feuilly.

“Probably because the only people that saw it were the people involved and me, and the people involved were probably trying to forget it, and I just never had reason to tell you,   
until now,” explained Enjolras, calming down from his laughing.

“Right, anyway, moving on, you know I’m gay, what you need to know is that I’ve fallen for someone, someone who is as damned near perfection as can be.”

“Lucky guy,” muttered Enjolras, his good mood souring, as he took a sip of his water.

“And, well, that someone, well, you see, it’s, am, the thing is, it’s you, Julien,” murmured Feuilly, gaze firmly fixed on the floor.  
Enjolras almost did a spit take, “Wait, what did you just say?”  
Feuilly lifted his head up and looked Enjolras straight in the eyes. “You, Julien. I’ve fallen for you, for the way you speak, the way you look, the way you think, hell, even the way you - ”

Feuilly was abruptly cut off by a pair of lips. Julien Enjolras’ lips to be precise. He was being kissed, soft and tenderly by Enjolras. He began to kiss Enjolras back. Their lips moved in tandem, working together before they simultaneously parted to let their tongues free, to fight for dominance. Enjolras won, before withdrawing his tongue, nibbling a little on Feuilly’s bottom lip and tentatively pulling away, breaking the kiss.

“Listen to me, Mathieu,” whispered Enjolras.

“Mmhmm?” asked Feuilly, a little breathless from what was, frankly, the best kiss of his life.

Enjolras smiled, “I’ve fallen for you too,” before moving in to kiss Feuilly again.


	4. The Art of Wooing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Okay, I’ll wear the blindfold Julien. Just, this better not lead to some sort of weird sex thing, I came to be wooed after all, and blindfolded sex definitely doesn’t count as ‘woo-ing’” said Feuilly as he let Enjolras cover his eyes.
> 
> “This isn’t a weird sex thing, Mathieu, I promise you.”

A vibrating sound woke Enjolras. He opened his eyes slowly, so as not to be blinded by the sunlight streaming through the cheap curtains in his bedroom, and reached for his phone.

_A little birdy who may or may not be named Marius told me that you and Feuilly hooked up last night. Well? –Courf_

And with that, Enjolras remembered. He remembered Feuilly’s declaration. He remembered kissing. He remembered more kissing. He remembered bringing Feuilly home and kissing him until they fell asleep.

_Not exactly, but sort of. – Enj_

Sadly, his bed was empty now, but lying beside his phone was a small piece of white paper; a note hastily written in Feuilly’s scrawly handwriting.

_Sorry, Julien, I have an early Polish class today. But, oh, how I wish I could stay._

-          _Mathieu x_

_P.S. You look beautiful when you sleep._

_P.S.S. That wasn’t meant creepily, I swear, it was meant in a nice, non-stalkerish way._

‘Polish?’ thought Enjolras. Then he remembered. Feuilly had grown up in France as an orphan, but when he was 18, he set out to find if he had any other family members outside of France, and found a grandmother who lived in southern Poland. Since then, he had become borderline obsessed with the country, striving to learn everything about the country – its history, culture, geography and, most importantly, its language. He had been attending classes to learn the crumpled mass of consonants that is the Polish language for the best part of two years now.

Another vibration. Another text from Courfeyrac.

_Clothe yourself and open the door. – Courf_

Enjolras chuckled to himself, of course Courfeyrac was going to come over, to him this was going to be far too important a conversation to be had via text. He quickly pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and went to open the door, only to be embraced by Courfeyrac upon completing the task.

“Aw, our little Enjy’s all grown up! He’s got himself a boyfriend. I’m so proud of you!” Courfeyrac all but squealed. “And define ‘sort of’.”

“Sort of” said Enjolras. “It means what it means.”

“Okay, listen here you blonde haired little shit,” smiled Courfeyrac. “You’d better tell me what happened. It’s the least you owe me. This is an ungodly hour to be up at!”

“It’s half ten, Courfeyrac,” interjected Enjolras drily.

“Exactly, ungodly. And not to mention I had to leave Jehan. You know what I’d be usually doing at this time of the morning? I’d be getting fuc-“

Enjolras slammed his hand over Courfeyrac’s mouth. “Now, don’t even, Michel. I’d rather not hear about your and Jehan’s sex life, thank you very much. Now, if I tell you what happened, will you leave?”

Courfeyrac nodded, mouth still covered by Enjolras’ hand.

“Well,” began Enjolras, “not long after you and Jehan left, Mathieu came over to me, and we started talking, and he said he liked someone, and then that that someone was me, and then I kissed him and told him I like him too, after which we kissed more, before leaving and coming here, where we kissed until we fell asleep. Then, I woke up this morning to your text and a note from him saying that he was sorry but he had an early class. There. Satisfied?”

“Yes. Very. Also, Jehan owes me €40,” smiled Courfeyrac.

“Wait, why?” asked Enjolras.

“Because, he bet me €20 that you would be the first one to confess your feelings, about which he was wrong, and then, because he bet me another €20 that you would progress to at least blowjobs on your first night together, if not the whole sex shebang, about which he was wrong again. Therefore, I get €40 for my troubles,” said Courfeyrac, looking very satisfied with himself.

Enjolras laughed. “You’re unbelievable, Michel, now get out, because I want a shower, and I’m not comfortable having you within the same apartment as me when I’m naked.” With that, he pushed Courfeyrac, looking slightly insulted, out of his apartment, before closing and locking the door.

“What kind of monster do you think I am, Julien?” shouted Courfeyrac through the door. “Actually, wait, don’t answer that. I’ll be on my way!”

***

Two hours later, and Enjolras had managed to shower, clean his apartment and deal with Combeferre’s questions about Feuilly before sitting down and relaxing.

He thought about Mathieu and he decided that he would ask him out on a date. You know, begin things properly. He quickly typed out a text and sent it off to Feuilly.

_Hey, Mathieu, I was wondering if you would like to go out with me on Saturday. Would you? x – Enj_

He didn’t have to wait long for the reply; in fact it was almost instantaneous.

_Of course I do. As long as ‘going out’ means you’re going to woo me ;) x –Feuilly_

_Obviously that’s what it means… But good! Just come round to my apartment around eight and we’ll head out then x. –Enj_

_*salutes* Yes SIR! X –Feuilly_

‘Brilliant,’ thought Enjolras, ‘now I have to think of something to do. Why do I never think these things through?’

***

Eight o’clock arrived and Feuilly, true to his word, was at Enjolras’ apartment almost on the dot.

Enjolras was pulling on his coat as he opened the door. He greeted Feuilly with a small peck on the lips before grabbing Feuilly’s hand and heading out of his building.

“So, where are we going then Julien?” asked Feuilly as they walked lazily through the streets of Paris.

“It’s a surprise, Mathieu. Now, do me a favour, and put this blindfold on. Please?”

“Wow there Enjolras,” laughed Feuilly. “Back it up a bit. Blindfold?”

“Yep, blindfold,” replied Enjolras. “Because where I’m taking you is just that much of a surprise, you can’t see anything. Will you wear it?”

“Okay, I’ll wear the blindfold Julien. Just, this better not lead to some sort of weird sex thing, I came to be wooed after all, and blindfolded sex definitely doesn’t count as ‘woo-ing’” said Feuilly as he let Enjolras cover his eyes.

“This isn’t a weird sex thing, Mathieu, I promise you.”

***

“Okay, Feuilly, you can take it off now,” called Enjolras.

Feuilly obliged, and when his eyes got used to the light again, he saw where he was. He was on a rooftop somewhere in the middle of Paris. He could see the Eiffel Tower in the distance, slicing into the sky, as well as the imposing Arc de Triomphe, standing proud as it looks over the city. Turning round he saw a small table set up in the middle of the roof, draped in a red cloth, with wine and cakes on it, complete with Julien Enjolras positioned proudly beside it, looking quite pleased with himself.

“Julien…this is….just….I mean….wow, Julien…..I, I have no words,” whispered Feuilly, walking towards the table. “Where are we?”

Enjolras smiled, “We’re on the rooftop of my apartment building. After you put the blindfold on, I circled you right back here, where I’d already set this up.”

Feuilly reached the table and Enjolras pulled out one of the chairs for him. Feuilly, still a little shocked, wondered, “How did you manage to do all this?”

“It was actually pretty easy,” shrugged Enjolras. “All of the residents of the building have a key to the roof, so after I texted you, I called Combeferre and made him come help me. I sent him to the Musain to acquire a table and a tablecloth, while I went to the little patisserie around the corner to buy these cakes. Then, we carried them, plus wine and two chairs from my apartment up here and set up. It was all done by around half six,” he explained as he poured out two glasses of wine and handed one to Feuilly.

“Still though,” said Feuilly. “You’ve seriously outdone yourself.”

Enjolras smiled knowingly. “Not yet I haven’t. Turn around, Mathieu, look at the sky.”

Feuilly obliged, turned around and saw as the panorama of Paris was bathed in two different glows. The electrical lights of every single street and avenue reflected up toward the sky, which was bathed in its own sea of orange as the sun slowly sank down, taking the day with it, and leaving the night behind. ‘Truly,’ he thought, ‘nothing is more breath-taking than Paris at sunset. Well, maybe one thing…’ He turned back around to Enjolras, who had managed to not only set up candles all around the little table so they could see each other, but also produce a heat lamp so they wouldn’t get cold later on.

Enjolras blushed slightly. “Okay, maybe I went a little too far..”

Feuilly grasped Enjolras’ hands. “Don’t be stupid, Julien, this is perfect. Now let’s eat, because I am absolutely famished.”

And so, they began to eat, falling into easy conversation, and feeling content.


	5. Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for this. Like, hugely sorry. 
> 
> I forgot about this story, it just went clean -whoosh- from my head. Then someone commented earlier on today and I was like "Oh, yeah, whoops."
> 
> So, I decided to actually sit down and finish the story. So (if anyone cares), thank Siden for this chapter.
> 
> That's only part of what I'm sorry for. The other part is - it's really really short (its not even 500 words - I'm useless) and also pretty bad in quality and most likely more than a little bit cliché. 
> 
> Again, I'm sorry. Forgive me. Here it is -

They fell onto his bed, joined at the lips and hips. After the wine and cakes on the roof, Enjolras took Feuilly downstairs to watch a film, but got distracted and ended up with his hands in Feuilly’s hair as he kissed him. Enjolras’ movements were precise, methodical and calculated: he didn’t want to give in just yet. He liked the way Feuilly moved against him.  
He liked the way that Feuilly had relinquished almost all of the control in this situation.

“Julien,” moaned Feuilly, the last syllable being dragged out to its fullest extent, “I need…skin…clothes…touch…”

Enjolras understood, broke the kiss, and moved so that he was straddling Feuilly’s hips. He then sat up and slowly began to unbutton his shirt.

 

*** 

 

Morning arrived all at once, spilling into the world with a blast of light. For someone with black-out or even just medium-quality curtains, there would not have been a problem, and they could have slept on. But Julien Enjolras was not one of these someones – he had to make to do with cheap curtains which may as well not have been there, and was untimely woken by said blast of light streaming in through his window.

Slowly, slowly, his eyes fluttered open, and he realised he was not alone in his bed. A head of black hair was snoozing – unaffected by the blinding glare – on Julien’s chest. Feuilly. Mathieu Feuilly. Memories of the night previous came rushing back; the rooftop, the sky, the cakes, the bed. A lazy smile spread across Julien’s face as he remembered.

The body half on top of him stirred and Mathieu Feuilly awoke. 

“God, Julien, what time is it?” murmured Mathieu.

Enjolras glanced at his clock, “Oh, eight o’clock.”

“Ugh, so early. Did you know that it is inhuman to be awake before nine in the morning at LEAST?”

“Says who?”

Feuilly shifted to look up at Enjolras, “Me.”

Enjolras laughed, “You know, I don’t want to get up just yet. In fact, I want to just lie here all day.”

“You know, that could be very easily be arranged,” whispered Feuilly as he manoeuvred himself up to face Enjolras.

“But it’s so unlike me! I should be up by now, watching the news and eating a good breakfast.” 

“Okay, how’s this as an alternative, then?” asked Feuilly, just before he closed the gap between their lips.

‘Not bad,’ thought Enjolras. ‘Not bad at all.’

***

LE CRÍOCH (THE END)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more time, sorry for the terrible ending of the story. 
> 
> But moving on, I do hope that you enjoyed the read at least somewhat - surely in five chapters (well, four and a half) there was at least some good bits?
> 
> Anyways, thanks for reading, and comment if you liked it, and I apologise if you didn't. 
> 
> :-)

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a section of labingi's essay on Slashing Enjolras, when it is mentioned that Feuilly is probably the only character that canonically, Enjolras would have a crush on. Therefore, this happened. Except, I couldn't deal with the thought of EVERYBODY'S impending death on the barricade, so I made it a Modern AU.
> 
> Please, if at all possible, comment and review.


End file.
